


Even Robots Need Blankets

by The-Clairvoyant-Rick (MajixTrixx)



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Based on an episode of The Blacklist, Gen, In field wound care, Mentions of Blood, Plot Bunny, Super ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 16:43:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8409064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajixTrixx/pseuds/The-Clairvoyant-Rick
Summary: Mortimer, the victim and the Morty who behaved more like a Rick than any of his genetic kin across the multiverse, looked at the vibrant haired genius and his companion with disbelieving skepticism, watching with partial horror as Rick unfurled a questionably sanitary transfusion kit from the pocket of his labcoat. "You're really gonna do some half assed bloodswap right here on the field while your Morty turns me into some kind of fucked up Frankenstein?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. I posted this on Tumblr as well but, to be honest, it isn't entirely finished. It is, but it's not. the ending is pretty open but I still really liked it and wanted to post it and just get it out there so it wouldn't sit in my google doc for an eternity, gathering dust and whatnot. This work is dedicated to TripleX_Tyrant who is utterly fucking fabulous and just, the best to be honest. 
> 
> Even though it's not much of anything I hope you all enjoy it(: 
> 
> Xo,   
> Clair

Panic pooled hot and heavy in Morty’s stomach, bringing the brunet right to the forefront of his early teenage memories. The sight before him brought Morty right back to the times when he’d first started adventuring with Rick, back when he was naive and ignorant to the real world, back when he didn’t know how to deal with trauma and became derailed in the face of situations he didn’t know how to deal with or handle. 

This though, this was different. 

It was morbidly attention drawing, watching the life of his enemy drain and spread over pale, heavily scarred skin like spilled milk inching across a black granite countertop. It was striking in a way, the contrast, watching as the darker haired version of himself got paler and paler, his eyes wide with alarm and mouth parted in surprise. It left Morty frozen and as the younger man watched the vibrant pool of carmine grow around his duplicate self. He felt glued to the spot, trapped by the wispy tendrils of memory as the past held him captive. 

He’d seen this before, seen the blood and the vacant expression, he’d seen the lifeless features of his own face, slack and unknowing, the cold face of a corpse before the eyes of the living. He’d bared witness to the mangled aftermath of an incident that he couldn’t have prevented, that he couldn’t have foreseen, lived in the shoes of his dead counterpart for nearly all of his teenage life, as if nothing had ever happened. He’d -- 

“Morty! Could y-you stop fucking gawking and actually help me out here?!” 

Rick’s sharp, no nonsense tone jerked the late teen from his own triggered memories, bringing him back to the present with a start. Regardless of his thundering heart or the fear plaguing his consciousness with the introduction of things better left forgotten, Morty took in the scene as best as he could. 

There was a jagged wound across the length of the older Morty’s chest, easily the best answer for the source of his blood loss. He had a nick along his neck, a few scratches on his shoulder and a harsh looking cut just above his eyebrow, the blood dripping from his forehead making the dark haired youth even paler in comparison. The most worrisome thing though was a puncture to his left thigh. It was deep, very nearly through and through and Morty had no doubt that it’d leave a nasty scary. Just another among many it seemed. 

Morty dropped down to his knees beside Rick and the alternate version of himself that was bleeding out before his eyes and, ripping off a segment of the boy’s already ruined shirt, Mort tired to mop away as much of the blood as he could. He knew that he wasn’t exactly gonna be able to get it to stop but if he was gonna help sew the boy up then he definitely needed to be able to at least see the edges of the wound. 

Beside him, Rick was digging around in his coat, swearing up a storm and complaining about all the damn pockets and how he could never find anything before pulling out a brand new box of dental floss, a curved needle and some alcohol swabs from his pocket with a sigh and tossing them Morty’s way, snickering meanly as the brunet nearly fumbled the objects. 

“That’s what I -- what we’ve got t-to work with. Make it count, Morty.” Rick said before turning his attention back to their patient.

Morty looked down at the supplies with dismay, wishing that he’d brought his first aid kit but the longing sentiment was worse than worthless so, with no small amount of mental complaining, Morty cracked open the floss and started threading the needle with it as best as he could, cursing the minty wax on the outside of the thread with a vengeance. He was quick though, fingers practiced in this particular art for more nefarious reasons than he’d actually like to consider and, after a brief moment, he was wiping down the needle with the alcohol wipe and pushing as much blood out of the way as he could to get a good look.

Mortimer, the victim and the Morty who behaved more like a Rick than any of his genetic kin across the multiverse, looked at the vibrant haired genius and his companion with disbelieving skepticism, watching with partial horror as Rick unfurled a questionably sanitary transfusion kit from the pocket of his labcoat, "You're really gonna do some half assed bloodswap right here on the field while your Morty turns me into some kind of fucked up Frankenstein?"   
Rick sneered and ensnared Mortimer’s arm in a lightning quick strike, “Do you have a better idea? Because -- because if you do, I’d love to hear it. No?” When the darked haired boy said nothing, Rick squeezed the youth’s wrist in a word of warning before continuing on, slipping the needle into the crook of the older boy's elbow with a bit more force than necessary, snickering when Mort hissed and quickly making a sarcastic quip, "C'mon. Just think of how much -- how much smarter you'll be when I'm finished."  
Suspicious blue eyes watched on, muscles tense and ready to spring as the black haired Morty waited for the other shoe to drop but, to his surprise, it didn't. 

Rick was incredibly professional, snickering and making comments of course, but that was just Rick. He was what he was, and Mortimer didn’t really expect much less but, in the long run, his comments were incredibly tame. Like his heart wasn’t in them. Rick worked alongside his Morty with a cool and collected sense of familiarity, merely trying to keep the rogue alive and the longer Mortimer stared at the going-ons around him, the more confused he became. 

_ Why were they helping him? _ Why bother to fix him at all if they were going to kill him? Was it merely to turn him over to the Council of Ricks in good health so that those bastards could get the most bang for their buck?  _ What was the purpose? _

Despite being exposed, completely at the mercy of the two people that he’d tried to kill, Mortimer’s eyes narrowed, the questions building up inside him one by one until the dark haired boy finally exploded, "Why the hell are you doing this?" 

Mort glared down at the red liquid flowing from Rick's arm after his outburst, very nearly cursing it as the crimson substance slid through the clear tube and into his own body. "It's obvious that I hate your guts and I can't imagine you hold a whole lot of warmth for me. Especially after all the bullshit on Zelpha 11-C. I tried to kill you, Rick. I still plan to kill you."

Beside them both, Morty swallowed nervously with the needle poised just above Mortimer’s skin, eyes going wide as he looked up at his grandfather in question, silently asking what to do. Rick merely sneered, rolling his eyes with an over exaggerated  sense of amusement. "I knew what was waiting for me in Zelpha long before I came. Y-you’re good, but not -- not good enough to pull one over on me, you little fuck."  
The shock of both boys was apparent, brows skyrocketing to their hairline in a mirrored expression of surprise, but after a full second of silence Mortimer finally spoke up and asked, with obvious bitterness, "Then why bother to save me at all?"   
For the briefest moment Rick's hands paused. His eyes gained a far away look to them and, in a rare expression of exposed emotion, he took on the look of a man who’d accepted long ago that he was lost. He held the appearance of a man who knew that he’d never find his way but continued walking regardless, his eyes glassy with the ghost of memory. The genius almost came across as sad, if somebody like Rick Sanchez could ever be described as such but, just as quickly as it came, the moment passed when the elder shook his head, quickly returning to his previous task, "B-because, dipshit, that's what y-you do when -- when someone is dying in front of you. Friends, allies, enemies, strangers. The -- the multiverse is a complex place, Mort. Real complex. Further complicated by man's fickle nature. Allies today, enemies tomorrow." 

The blue haired genius chuckled, not seeming to care that his hands were stained with blood or that the situation was dire and held the possibility of failure, "Years ago, I saved a -- a man's life in dimension 721-T. Knocked him out of the path of a Trikarion, patched him up a bit. A week later, he -- he tried to kill me on Andarion V. I understood. Allegiances shift, Mort, things change. A month after that, I-I vaporized him in a shack on Terras 9. It's just -- that’s just the way it is.” 

He gestured down to the transfusion kit with a jerk of his chin, “That needle i-in your arm, the one saving your life, becomes the one in your neck ending it. It's just that simple.”

“And that complicated."


End file.
